


Jonelias Blog Prompts

by IneffableAlien



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Bottom Elias Bouchard, Breeding, Dehumanization, Elias worships Jon, Extended sounds of brutal pipe murder, Fear Play, Gun Kink, Jon is marked by The Lonely pre-Institute, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Mentioned Peter Lukas, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Monsterfucking, Oral Sex, PIV Sex, POV Elias Bouchard, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Pregnancy, Rape Aftermath, Self-Hatred, Size Difference, Stranger!Elias, Top Elias Bouchard, Unhealthy Relationships, Wings, Xeno, statements kink, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/IneffableAlien
Summary: Collected unconnected one-shots based on Tumblr asks.Chapter ratings vary from General to Explicit and are labeled.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Peter Lukas/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 42
Kudos: 133





	1. brutal

**Author's Note:**

> **Blog is[here](https://bastard-men-prefer-jon.tumblr.com/)**
> 
> [Dream a Little Dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550955) was prompted by an anon, too, but when it got to be around five and a half pages I just made it a post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Anon](https://bastard-men-prefer-jon.tumblr.com/post/626805267093504000/little-disappointed-no-ones-written-jon-watching) wanted Jon watching Elias murder Leitner while Elias realizes it's turning Jon on.
> 
> **Rated Mature**

Jon stared at his fingers wrapped around a Silk Cut and tried to suppress the deep ache of indecipherable emotion that was causing his jaw to lock. His tremors were back. Well, that was just lovely. He supposed it was fitting, one more thing over which he exerted no control. At least his day couldn’t get any worse than learning that he was under ownership of some sort of evil Fear not-god thing.

He shook his head and stubbed out the remains of his cigarette on the outside wall of the Institute before heading back indoors and making his way toward his office. What little color had been left in his face drained as he approached it. The sensation in his legs was not unlike treading knee-deep in the ocean. _Be still,_ the thought came as though a whisper from an intimate friend. _Wait and watch, for there is much to see._

Jon knew he hadn’t left the door cracked open like that.

The knowledge that great violence was afoot settled over him, but he did not fling the door wide to try and stop whatever was about to happen.

Jon Sims was not a brave man, but that was not the reason he hid himself in the hall now. He did so because it felt correct.

“It’s always a danger,” Elias’s voice came from inside the office, and Jon stumbled a step back before positioning himself to spy through the centimeter of space slitting around the doorframe. Elias’s voice was honeyed as always, and Jon pretended to be unaffected by it as always, even though there was only himself here to whom to lie. There was a new note of unease to it, though. “Almost always.”

“Elias,” Leitner moaned desperately, “it doesn’t have to be like—”

Elias slammed the pipe he had been gripping down on the center of Leitner’s scalp so hard that Leitner didn’t have time to scream before he toppled to the floor. Even the landing was muted, as Leitner’s weak old body crumpled no louder than a tiny bag of dirt and dust. Jon’s hand flew to his mouth to halt a shriek, and part of him detached by trauma noted that he never knew such a dramatic gesture was something people did outside fiction.

Head wounds bleed a lot.

_Two hits. Three. Four. Five. Six._

Jon’s eyes, widened and dark, flitted over the liquid pooling around Leitner’s head like a gruesome halo. He knew he ought to have been more interested in that sight, but instead he turned his gaze to Elias’s shoulders. His crisp white button-down was obviously not meant for exercise, and so it stretched on Elias’s slight but defined deltoids and triceps as he swung. _Like he could swing me by the waist over his shoulder,_ Jon thought. On some disregarded level, Jon was sick with the knowledge that such a thought would come to him at a time like this.

Elias dropped the pipe onto Leitner’s unconscious body, and a fresh spray of blood painted the charcoal cuffs of Elias’s trousers black.

Jon should have been disgusted. He should have retched. Instead, he absorbed the vision as a trembling voyeur, cataloguing Elias’s every move. Jon shifted, telling himself that the hardness growing against his thigh was merely a confused parasympathetic response. _It could happen to anyone,_ he thought. It had nothing to do with the single bead of sweat curving along the hollow of Elias’s throat as he swallowed.

The crimson droplets clinging to Elias’s five o’clock shadow had no right being so beautiful.

All this in a couple second’s time, between the last strikes and the ones that followed.

 _Elias is killing a man,_ Jon thought at himself. _He is killing a man and all you can do is watch._

 _No,_ he corrected, _all you_ want _to do is watch._

He wondered what else he would let Elias do, if Elias wanted.

Another hit. And another. As Jon only watched.

This entire time Elias had been inhumanly silent, and now he let out a grunt and his shoulders shook as though his body had remembered to imagine that adrenaline was a thing. He held the pipe limply by his side and wiped his forehead with the back of one sleeve, only succeeding in transferring and distributing blood around the distinguished bones of his face. Jon rubbed his cheeks, vibrating with a sudden thought to fling himself on Elias’s side and suck the soaked expanse of skin under his chin.

Elias landed a parting blow to the clearly dead man for good measure, and Jon used the noise that resulted to cover gently closing the door. Shellshocked, he turned and drifted in the direction of the employee restroom on that floor. His brain was already calculating the appropriate amount of time to let pass before he “discovered” Leitner’s body.

He knew it would be the exact same amount of time it took to slump against a steel wall and stroke himself off while thinking about how Elias looked as he murdered Jurgen Leitner.

 _It was always Elias,_ Jon thought blankly. How had he not realized it sooner? _It was always Elias I craved, and it was always Elias I would protect no matter what crime he committed._

Back in Jon’s office, Elias settled his weapon once more on his shoulder, cracked his neck from side to side, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	2. roulette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This art and fic collab was based on @waldos-art's intensely problematic [gunplay](https://bastard-men-prefer-jon.tumblr.com/post/627017794995748864/that-isnt-proper-gun-safety-youre-perfect-like) :)
> 
> **Rated Mature**

“You’re perfect like this,” Elias said gently, cradling Jon’s head. Jon had recently had the back of his hair clipped short again, and Elias indulged his fingertips in ruffling the rabbit-soft salt-and-pepper fuzz.

Jon moaned harmlessly around the metal filling his mouth as it pressed on his tongue. Elias tilted the barrel down slowly until the top of it clacked against Jon’s teeth. Jon’s pupils blew impossibly wider. His eyes crossed to anxiously gape at the rear sight of the full size 1911 before flitting up from beneath dark lashes, first to Elias’s crotch at face level, and then to meet Elias’s gaze. Beads of perspiration were beginning to form on Jon’s temples, glistening against the strands of silver there, and Elias smiled fondly. He could almost taste the salt as he imagined licking up Jon’s cheek in one long, languid stroke.

“Doesn’t it feel amazing, Archivist?” Elias asked softly. “To be so full of fear, and to simply _let it happen?”_ Elias nudged Jon’s thighs apart with his foot and offered his shin to the straining front of Jon’s trousers. Elias wondered with some amusement if Jon even noticed how he shot forward to lock his hips onto Elias’s leg. Jon hadn’t even strayed from eye contact as his lower half ground for relief seemingly of its own accord.

“Doesn’t it feel _right?”_ Elias murmured. “To feed _our_ god on your knees, and to allow me to fill you to the brim with that which feeds it?”

Jon mumbled some manic attempt at a reply, and felt his saliva start to flow around the greasy metal. He made an irritated sound as he sucked to swallow spit, still too proud to let himself drool all the way down his chin. “Exquisite creature,” Elias breathed, committing to memory the vision of the way Jon’s cheeks hollowed out when he accommodated Elias feeding something past his lips. Elias rewarded him by rocking the top of his leather loafer up and down the pulsing rock-hardness of Jon’s cock. Jon whimpered.

The tone of Elias’s voice dropped to something more human, even tender. “You’re so good, Jon,” he said. Elias had ordered Jon to take off his shoes and socks before kneeling, and Elias felt unexpectedly warmed when he saw Jon’s toes curl adorably from the compliment. As if all that had happened so far hadn’t been delicious enough, Elias gasped when Jon wiggled forward almost imperceptibly to take more of Elias’s weapon, not being prompted or forced. Jon had shakily reached one arm behind his ass to assist him in better arching his back, thus eagerly delivering easy access into his throat. “I’m so proud to have you,” Elias said in a reverent hush.

It wasn’t that Jon trusted Elias now. His fear had not subsided. Rather, he let more of it flow back to Elias on his own terms—gifted, not stolen—and in this context, it was all the sweeter for it.

“I wonder what scares you more, Jon,” Elias whispered gratefully, “that I could kill you right now, or that you’re powerless to even Ask why?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	3. slip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @newmidnightmayor wanted [Jon as an undercover avatar of The Eye at the Institute](https://bastard-men-prefer-jon.tumblr.com/post/627129386687201280/for-newmidnightmayor-au-concept-jon-is-already) who "blows" (lol) his cover in an extremely specific way ...
> 
> **Rated Explicit**

The future was unknown to Jonathan Sims.

That was why it had surprised him to be promoted to Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute after only four short years. A welcome surprise, to be sure, although he would have remained committed to the long game as originally intended had that proven necessary. The way things had been going with Gertrude Robinson, it had only been a matter of time before she got herself murdered by Jonah Magnus sooner or later. But Jon never could have calculated for Jonah acting erratically (albeit understandably) in the heat of the moment.

Jon had come to the Institute those years ago after The Eye first showed Jonah to him, revealing Jonah’s plans to destroy the world and rule its remains. Jon would not have been able to tell you why, as an avatar, he seemed to be so highly favored. Was it because as a young boy marked by The Web, Jon had devoured any knowledge he could unearth on the Fears without even a mentor to guide his findings? For all its impersonality, was it possible that Beholding could develop something akin to affection for a child seeking to serve it so fervently?

Whatever the reason for it, Jon enjoyed The Eye’s horrible blessing.

Jonah Magnus was over 200 years old and had reaped the benefits of having a failed Watcher’s Crown under his belt. Jon was barely pushing thirty, but with The Eye revealing and concealing whatever and however it saw fit, Jon and Jonah were all but evenly matched. Make no mistake, although he preferred a more “human” life devoid of any rituals and ostentation, Jon was a monster, terrible and awesome, and he knew it. Now Jon spied on Jonah for years in Jonah’s own place of power, a place where Jonah was only known by the name Elias, and the Ceaseless Watcher kept Jonah blind to Jon’s machinations—just so long as _It_ could Watch the resulting show.

Suffice to say, there was no way in all the Entities’ domains that Jon was about to sit back and let Jonah bring about the Apocalypse.

Not if Jon might be able to bring it about first.

The affair had not been a part of the plan. But perhaps it had been inevitable, two acolytes of the same god orbiting around each other. Besides, both were handsome in their own unique right; both spoke with voices dark and smooth as magnetic tape. Both of them had a touch of The Lonely about them, even if they didn’t serve it. And although Beholding would not allow Jonah to behold all there was to Jon, Jonah sensed just enough about Jon to know that he craved to Know more.

This was fine, was what Jon told himself, when the two of them finally crashed together in the darkened Archives long after the rest of the crew had gone home. Jon could remain detached, he was sure. As he nosed along the underside of Jonah’s jaw to suck purple blooming bruises beneath his ear—this was all about keeping close Eyes on one’s rival, nothing more. Why shouldn’t he have a little pleasure at the same time?

This was fine, Jonah told himself, as he turned his head to catch Jon’s lips and moan into the rich velvet heat of his mouth. The shelves quaked behind him as Jon roughly shoved Jonah into them. This was fine. Jonah would have his Archivist. He would still bring about his kingdom. Nothing could distract him.

Jon licked into that moan and inhaled sharply as the kiss deepened. Jonah was clinging with both hands to the back of Jon’s neck so dearly, as though Jon might save him from drowning. Jon slid his hands up under Jonah’s ass and lifted tentatively, causing Jonah to buck forward and grind his aching erection against Jon’s through their trousers. It was strange, Jon noted, Jonah was at least two to three inches taller than him, but Jonah felt so small like this, so compelled with need.

It was painfully endearing.

How long had it been since Jonah had been intimate with anyone who could grant him the gift of truly Seeing him, even if Jonah were only picking up on that subconsciously?

“You’re beautiful, Elias,” Jon heard himself say, then buried his face in Jonah’s shoulder to nip and lick at the vulnerable spots there before he could spill any more truths.

Jonah dragged his hands through Jon’s wild curls. “Tell me what you ~~S~~ see?” he choked.

Jon made his way back up the side of Jonah’s face, raining kisses along the pronounced bones of his cheek. “Something worth keeping,” Jon promised searingly sweet on Jonah’s ear. (Jon wasn’t that smooth, had he stolen what Jonah wanted to hear? It happened like that sometimes.)

Cupping Jon’s cheek with one hand, Jonah nudged his mouth open again, and Jon thought he could _taste_ Jonah’s smug smirk. “Let me prove that,” Jonah teased, sinking to his knees. Jon braced himself on the shelves over Jonah’s head, while Jonah undid Jon’s belt and reached into his briefs to free his cock. It pulsed and beaded a clear pearl of slick as Jonah dragged his tongue along the bottom of it.

“Elias,” Jon murmured, his eyelids fluttering shut, “y-yes, Elias …”

Jonah suckled the head of Jon’s cock past his kiss-swollen lips and smiled around it when Jon groaned. Spreading his spit all around the shaft, Jonah held it firmly and pressed his mouth to his thumb and forefinger to move his head and hand as one.

“Fuck,” Jon muttered hoarsely. “Elias, I won’t last long like that …”

 _Then don’t,_ Jonah thought, _don’t hold back._ Jonah reached up with his free hand to stroke Jon’s hip, and something tender welled up in him when Jon clasped his hand there. Long fingers entwined, Jonah popped off Jon’s prick to swipe his palm back and forth over the sensitive head, catching its rim on his little finger.

Jon gasped. “Your mouth, Elias, please, again, let me …”

Jonah squeezed Jon’s hand once before engulfing his hard-on in his mouth, until the tip bumped the back of his throat. Jonah started fucking his face on Jon’s cock in earnest.

“I’m going to come, Elias …”

Jonah growled encouragingly, a low rumble. _That’s good, Jon, you lovely thing, come for me,_ he thought.

 ** _“Jonah!”_** Jon shouted with a thrust, fisting Jonah’s hair and flooding past his tongue.

Jonah was still. He swallowed discreetly, then shifted slightly off Jon as he softened. Jonah’s heart was racing.

“God, Elias,” Jon sighed, oblivious as he traced Jonah’s temples with his fingertips.

Jonah shivered, trying to make sense of what just happened. In spite of himself, he raised a fearful, trembling hand to brush Jon’s on the side of his face, then delicately gripped Jon’s wrist, stroking the back of it with his thumb. His jaw dropped to speak, but no words came.

And then, Jonah looked at Jon, and his vision began to focus in the dim light.

Jonah’s blood froze, his nails digging into Jon’s skin. Jon blinked at him.

 _All_ of Jon blinked at him.

Jonah raised his widening stare up the length of Jon’s body, _while all of Jon blinked at him_ —Jon’s thighs, his cock, his abdomen, his chest …

When Jon realized, he knew there was no taking it back. But when he saw the terror and the worship in Jonah’s eyes, he Knew there was no reason to do so.

They were both exactly where they needed, and wanted, to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	4. pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Anon](https://bastard-men-prefer-jon.tumblr.com/post/627576578540519424/general-prompt-elias-would-like-jon-to-associate) wanted Elias wanting Jon to associate statements with pleasure.
> 
> **Rated General**

It seemed innocent to start.

“It’s a single origin Brazilian coffee,” Elias said with a self-satisfied smirk. “Surely you wouldn’t deprive yourself a good espresso?”

Jon had only just wrapped up post-statement notes literal seconds before Elias had allowed himself in Jon’s office. Jon hadn’t been Head Archivist long, and it still stunned him to discover just how immersive statements were. He was trying to shake off now that unsettling feeling of having been someplace else entirely. No, not someplace else—some _one_ else.

“Ah, I can’t say I’m knowledgeable about what constitutes a ‘good’ espresso, but I do like coffee—”

“Black,” Elias asserted, “you take your coffee black. You’ll like this, I promise.”

For an instant Jon believed he saw Elias’s steel-grey eyes flash an unnatural shade of green. Strange lighting in the basement. “Right,” said Jon uneasily. “Well, what do I owe you?”

Elias chuckled and waved his hand with the coffee in it, causing the aroma to waft up and out to Jon. It smelled delicious. “Jon, I told you, the barista gave me two drinks by mistake. Just take it, won’t you?” He held out the cup expectantly.

“Well, thanks,” muttered Jon. He took the cup, and tried to ignore how nice it felt when Elias’s forefinger (surely on accident) stroked over the sensitive _V_ between Jon’s middle and index fingers.

“I am delighted with the way you’ve been adjusting to your new department, Jon,” Elias said fondly. “Just do what you need to, and you’ll be fine.”

“What is it about you and beverages?” Jon asked wryly.

Elias surprised Jon by crossing behind the desk and stepping too far into Jon’s personal space for comfort. “I might ask what it is about you and being distrustful,” Elias said quietly, as he picked up the bottle of Cabernet on Jon’s desk and poured a couple glasses, brought down from his own office.

“Well, do you always ply staff members with alcohol in the middle of the day?” Jon huffed.

Elias placed a glass in Jon’s hand, and Jon did not refuse it. Then, he fixed his eyes on Jon’s face as he took a sip. “‘Ply’?” he repeated. “An interesting word choice. What do you believe I’m _plying_ you to do?”

Jon sputtered at the implications, taking a large gulp from his glass to cover his reddening face. “I was about to read a statement,” he tried changing the subject lamely.

“I know,” said Elias briskly. He clasped Jon’s shoulder from the opposite side, and Jon could feel the heat coming off Elias’s chest onto his ribs. “But before you do, a toast to your first month as Archivist.” He leaned across Jon’s body and clinked their glasses together.

Jon did a double take at the calendar on the wall. “Oh!” he said sharply. Well, that was just great. Here Elias had been trying to do something perfectly kind, and Jon had gone and read too much into it and made it weird. “Right. Thank you.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, wherein Elias’s eyes darted from Jon’s glass to his face. He still had his arm around Jon’s back. It dawned on Jon then that he was waiting for him to finish his drink and return the glass, and he drained it awkwardly with a cough. Elias squeezed Jon’s shoulder once before moving away with the empty glasses and the bottle, leaving Jon’s side suddenly bereft. Not thinking, Jon rubbed his side where Elias had stood, where Elias had felt so _correct_ touching him.

“That ought to keep you warm while you read your statement,” Elias said with a tender smile upon reaching the door, and it took Jon a moment to realize that he must mean the wine, not the soft shimmering ghost of his flesh. “I’ll leave you to do what you need to.”

Jon wasn’t sure when it stopped seeming innocent.

Elias was sat in the ratty leather chair in front of Jon’s desk, one foot crossed on a knee and his fingers tented.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said anxiously, “are you evaluating me right now?”

“Not at all, Jon,” said Elias breezily. “I only wanted to observe while you read a statement.”

For some reason, Jon’s heart was pounding in his chest. “Why?”

Elias said nothing. Then, he subtly narrowed his eyes, and his mouth curved gently. “I trust you, Jon,” he said, “so I know that I can speak candidly.”

 _‘I trust you,’ ‘I trust you,’_ the words rang around Jon’s skull. He felt a surge of pride at that, and nothing Elias said next could offend him. “Yes, of course,” Jon mumbled.

Elias spread his hands, as if to say _“it is what it is.”_ “I decided to take a break,” he said, “and I would prefer that my breaks be enjoyable, and you have an enjoyable voice. So here I am.”

 _He really said that,_ Jon thought. _Like that was a normal thing to say._ Even setting unprofessionalism aside, the praise _wrecked_ Jon’s insides, and he shuddered with pleasure.

“Just do what you need to,” Elias said, “like I’m not even here.”

Elias joined Jon for statements many times after that.

Then, one day, he stood up in the middle of it.

Jon’s breath hitched, but he did not (could not?) stop reading as Elias slowly moved behind him. His fingers clutched the paper tighter as Elias lowered the front of his body to Jon’s back. Elias stroked his chin and dropped his face close to Jon’s, as though reading over Jon’s shoulder.

It felt so good to be so close to Elias. It felt so good to be reading a statement. Jon was distantly aware that these things always seemed to be happening at the same time. The statements were good because of Elias, and Elias … well.

Jon leaned back ever so slightly in his desk chair as he read, gravitating toward Elias— _Elias,_ who always brought him little tokens of his affection, who smiled at him like he was something special, who complimented everything he did. _Elias,_ who never forced physicality but always held it _right_ there, letting Jon set his own nervous pace, clever fingers and welcoming arms just waiting for Jon to give in and fold himself into exactly where he wanted to be.

And he would, and Elias knew he would …

Elias had always known he would.

Elias held still as Jon pressed back into him, then responded by sliding his hands delicately to Jon’s clavicle. The words continued to spill off Jon’s lips as Jon trembled, and then he rubbed his cheek against Elias’s in encouragement. Elias nuzzled his hair, breathing in the smell of coconut oil rubbed into Jon’s messy bun and loose silver-shot black tendrils. Elias gave a chaste kiss to Jon’s temple.

 _Just do what you need to, and you’ll be fine,_ Jon thought, but the words didn’t feel like his own, like a whisper had been dropped directly in his brain.

Jon would be fine. He’d be so good, do what Elias needed, read what Elias needed, be what Elias wanted, and that way he’d be fine.

Elias would see to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	5. isolated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Anon](https://bastard-men-prefer-jon.tumblr.com/post/629966902745333760/i-want-someone-to-write-a-version-of-boatswains) wanted a version of MAG 33 where Jon has more than just met Peter Lukas, and Elias is preventing Jon from reading statements about Peter.
> 
> **Rated Teen**

It was unseasonably cold when Jon walked into his office, even for a basement archive, and the dust was so thick in the dim light that had he not known better he would have thought it was sourceless smoke curling about the room.

How was it so quiet? The room felt larger than normal, and he padded across the hardwood to the desk as though on little cat feet. There was a statement waiting for him there; had he set it aside the night before so as to make a point to read it tonight, only to have left so exhausted that he had forgotten about it entirely? Would he have failed to notice it all day until now?

Jon settled best he could in his unsteady chair (literally duct-taped together in places) and pulled the chain on the desk lamp. It cast a sickly green glow across the manila folder before him. Jon reached to shake the loose handwritten statement from the folder and froze, fingertips hovering above it when a terrible cramp suddenly flared in his shoulder.

He hissed and fell back, grasping the pained area and massaging gently. _Don’t get old,_ he thought at himself, a joke he might have made as small talk, if he weren’t always so deeply alone. Jon glanced down at the folder, still rubbing his sore muscle, and read the sticker on the tab.

**# 0110201 SLOANE C.**

Jon felt a chill pass through him, and he released his shoulder.

It was so damned cold.

He sighed, and as he inhaled he was hit with the smell of sea salt, too piercing to be imagined. _Well, that’s just lovely,_ Jon thought. Someone was burning a scented candle near the paper archives, of all places. He glowered, slumping down slightly. He would have to have a talk with his assistants about the consequences for such an egregious lack of common sense.

Jon started again to pick up the statement. His head shot up. He had the strangest sensation. The smell had gone as quickly as it came, but it had been replaced by the feeling of being watched.

“Hello?” he tried, failing to keep the quiver out of his tone. “Is someone there?”

Silence.

He was hallucinating things. He could feel his blood thrumming in his ears.

Jon was struck by the strange unbidden mental image of two dogs fighting over a bone.

It hit Jon then that he did not _want_ this statement. There was no way he could have selected it the night before and not even remember now. That left only the possibility that someone had trespassed in his office; some asinine prank of Tim’s, no doubt. Jon would probably open the folder to find—oh, a silly cartoon ghost, or something.

Either way, _he did not want that folder._ His body ached, as every fiber of his being seemed to see that it was no good. _Put it away,_ came the thought. Yes, most sensible idea he had since he sat down.

Jon was finally able to pick up the folder, and he dropped it in the bottom drawer of his desk. As he slammed it shut in annoyance, a subtler salt smell hit him, like the action of shutting the cabinet so forcefully had kicked back up the atoms in the air carrying that cloying candle scent. But now Jon wavered, unable to straighten back up. In that instant, he was reminded of something.

He remembered the sailor who had come to Poole Harbour right before Jon left for university. The rough-handed man, rugged and pale-eyed, who had left Jon reeking of the ocean—and of something else, something oily and tarnished that Jon hadn’t known how to put into words.

So he never had.

What was the point of sharing things that happened to you after the fact? It didn’t undo the thing. It just made it so the thing had still happened, but now also someone knew about you. Someone could _see_ you, and they’d forever watch you with eyes full of sickening pity.

Jon would have blinked back tears, but he used them all up a long time ago.

 _You are a mess,_ he thought angrily, _what is wrong with you? You hadn’t thought about It in a decade, and now you’re going to feel sorry for yourself when you have work to do? Don’t let someone see you like this!_

Meanwhile, in another office in the Institute entirely, on a completely different floor, Elias Bouchard could not tear his gaze away.

God, but his Jon was so beautiful. How could he not be expected to Look?

 _His_ Jon, who had come to him so marked already by The Web and The Lonely both, clearly meant for Elias’s purposes. Bleeding so much fear and despair, and Elias twitched in his seat, eyes fixed over his tented fingers pressed against his lips. Elias thought about how it might be to kiss Jon’s fingers, how Elias would treat him soft and careful enough to scare him properly with awful intimacy. Elias leaned forward with his elbows on the cherry desk.

Jon needed someone to witness and shape his shining potential, to praise his perfect flaws. Perhaps an older man, handsome, bordering on a father figure, someone Jon would desperately want to please, yet be shot through with blinding panic every time he got touched a certain way … and that sweet seasoning of guilt that was sure to follow, when Jon would inevitably beat himself up for projecting his past onto someone who merely wanted to take care of him.

 _My apologies, Peter,_ Elias thought for nothing but air, _but I will have him, and he is too precious for me to ever let you have him back._

_But if it’s any consolation, I’ll make sure he never forgets._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	6. stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific prompt, but inspired by [Entity swap discussions with followers](https://bastard-men-prefer-jon.tumblr.com/tagged/the-boys-as-other-entities-headcanons) _([Stranger!Elias tag here](https://bastard-men-prefer-jon.tumblr.com/tagged/stranger!elias))._
> 
> **Rated Teen**

The Archive is agitated again.

“Hello?” it calls in a shaky-small voice. “Is somebody … ?” It sits up on the divan, pressing the heel of its palm against its forehead. It pulls back to stare at the thing—which is its hand—with uncanny blankness.

Jonah rushes into the room with all the urgency of a parent responding to a beloved child in the throes of a nightmare. He settles beside it and wraps his arms around its waist. “What is it, Jon?” he asks tenderly.

It is best, when it gets like this, to let the Archive play at being people.

The Archive makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and when it tries to stand on its coltish legs, Jonah pulls it into his lap easily. “… Jon?” it asks hopefully, cuddling up to Jonah’s warmth.

“Jon,” Jonah says agreeably. “Your name is Jon,” he says, “and I’m Martin, and you love me very much.”

“Ohh,” the Archive sighs in relief, until it remembers: _“oh!_ Martin! We need to go, we …”

“Where do we need to go, Jon?” Jonah prompts, tucking a silver curl behind the Archive’s ear. He knows the bones of this conversation, but the details change, and he feels a strange pride in encouraging its creativity.

“We, we,” the Archive offers, “we have to, ah— we were going to …”

Jonah glances out of the Panopticon, down on the ruined world. “The tower?” he suggests, smiling softly.

“The tower!” The Archive blasts Jonah with such a charming grin, that the thing one might generously call Jonah’s heart swells with affection. “Yes! We need to get, ah …”

“To the tower,” Jonah reminds him. “Yes,” he says, “we are on our way to the tower, to defeat the bad man who tricked you. But first”—he punctuates his next words with a kiss to the underside of the Archive’s jaw—“we rest.”

“Rest?” the Archive repeats. That doesn’t feel right to it. **“Why are we stopped?”** It tries to open its eyes, and Jonah adores it for its efforts.

The Archive used to Know so much, when Jonah needed it.

Nikola’s attempt failed so spectacularly and so early that it didn’t even hit the mark enough to count against their Entity, and Jonah knows he has the Archive in part to thank for that. It didn’t matter whether he and Nikola shared a god; all that mattered was that Jonah had no desire to share the throne.

Except with his own masterpiece.

A human would think it sad, to create such a thing of power only to have to inevitably undo it by sheer virtue of its use. Another avatar would probably have just disposed of it then. But it is so sweet and yielding now, and Jonah is sentimental, and he hates to be lonely. Besides, its fear is precious. Jon Sims had been terrified of being seen as anything less than respectably intellectual, and Jonah’s god keeps the Archive just self-aware enough to occasionally realize what a dumb animal it’s become.

He tells it stories. He invents Flesh gardens for its entertainment, flaming apartment complexes, confrontations where the Archive destroys the thing that killed its friend (that one in particular amused Jonah to no end, all things considered). Jonah stole aspects of The Eye to build it, after all, and as such it still loves to listen to his conjurings.

Jonah’s hands slide down the Archive’s body, and it squeaks, caught between base pleasure and the anxiety of not understanding the source. But Jonah whispers in its ear everything it wants to hear, hero quests where he writes it into the main character, and his Archive melts in his embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	7. alpha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific prompt, but inspired by Discord conversations and multiple replies to [this post](https://bastard-men-prefer-jon.tumblr.com/post/631552553450192896/what-if-for-my-next-ficlet-on-here-i-tried-my).
> 
> **Rated Explicit**

**1996**

_Suppressants._

Jonah shook with rage as he started to inspect the body of Elias Bouchard from inside it.

He was now doubly glad that he had killed that sorry excuse for a filing clerk.

One must try to understand, they did not have such things in the 1800s. There are tells, ways to clock someone taking the medication, but Jonah had been about as interested in that technology as he was in learning the latest Nokia.

Jonah— no. Elias (the sooner he got used to using that name, the better) gazed mournfully down at the blood-soaked body of James Wright. It had been a good one. He had enjoyed being tall, while it lasted; until he could feel himself growing feeble and stalked by The End. At that time he had made the preparations to move on, as he always had.

Elias could have Known. He would have Seen.

He’d been too presumptuous to Look.

 _Who would have ever thought to check for that?,_ he thought angrily, as though the young man he had murdered had intentionally duped him.

Oh, well. Now was not the time for regrets. Elias had to dispose of James’s body, take a nice hot shower, and scrub the dried blood that filled the lines on his face like pottery held together by liquid gold.

Later, he’d have to adjust to his new reality as a first-time omega.

**2018**

“Am I … Elias, am I still human?”

Elias felt himself grow hot as he took in the sight of his pretty little Archivist. God, but he smelled delicious, all that cultivated fear mingled with the omega’s climbing personal scent of sea salt and cinnamon.

One thing Elias had discovered early on was that his instinct for finding omegas, and scenting out heat cycles, although diminished in this body, was not vanished. Elias thought it might be more infuriating than if the ability had just been torn from him altogether. Because as it stood, Elias knew that his Archivist was entering a fertile phase—and there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it.

In his more respectable office worker past, prior to having to live on the run and be traumatized again and again by different avatars, Jon Sims would have almost certainly started a round of suppressants by this time in his monthly cycle. Now, presenting as a filthy patchwork of bandages and bruises, Elias wondered if Jon even noticed how he reeked.

Elias swallowed subtly. “Jon,” he started, “what does human even mean? I mean, really?” Elias held it together, gentling Jon with his best manipulative but soothing words, but inside Elias was snarling.

 _There was a time I would have bent you in half over this desk for even daring to be alone with me while you stink like that,_ Elias thought. _I would have pumped my knot so hard in whichever hole I found first that you would have bled on it._ “You still bleed,” Elias continued calmly. If only. “You can still die. And your will is still your own … mostly.”

 _And how incorrigibly wrong is that,_ Elias thought to himself. _It should be_ all _mine. You should be mine. You are mine. I’d keep you bred—_

“That’s more than can be said for a lot of the ‘real’ humans out there,” Elias finished, with a beatific grin.

It should perhaps be noted that there is nothing inherently “lesser” about being an omega in society. An alpha needs an omega just as much as the reverse is true, and omegas on the whole have a quiet power about them.

That discourse means nothing to the Fears.

If it can appear that having an omega body is like a punishment, or that **Becoming** an alpha is like a reward, that simply is not true. For The Eye does not punish or reward. The Eye only shapes its ruined reality in all its eldritch glory into whatever it sees most fit to Watch.

And the one thing more delicious to watch than Jonah Magnus’s internalized horror at living life as an omega, was his terror at realizing that his Archive post-transformation was no doubt now a monstrous alpha.

No doubt, _his_ alpha.

When the Archive had finally reached the Panopticon alone, still some Jon left in it then, its pheromones had literally dropped Elias to his knees and made him cry out with the suddenness of his splintering _need_ to be mounted. Elias recalled how the Archive had approached him, slowly, like coming up on a scared animal, and ran its fingers through his hair. It had smiled as it allowed Elias to grab its ankles and rub his nose and mouth all over the Archive’s feet, all over the very blinking floor on which it stood …

It smiled because that was back when the Archive still had a mouth.

Now, Elias writhes under the Archive, no longer terrified of anything at all save maybe not getting properly pounded into the ground. It was good, it was ecstasy, belonging to his god like this. Elias might have regretted losing decades to believing he was somehow above being claimed, if not for the fact that being claimed sooner might have prevented this. Would he still be the Archive’s if another alpha had taken him first? He shudders at the idea of it, of being anything more than a reverent worshiper, a sprawling fuckslut, a thriving incubator for his perfect Archive.

The Archive Hears this passing thought of Elias’s as it slams into him, their foreheads touching, and the Archive answers, a single word that reverberates hundreds of times and rattles around Elias’s skull like rusty nails: _Mine._

“Yours,” Elias chokes in response. He desperately attempts to spread his thighs even farther apart, but his knees are pinned to his chest by the Archive’s weight and he only manages to wiggle ineffectually in a pathetic bid to be fucked even deeper.

That would probably not be possible. The size difference shouldn’t even have been possible, Elias thought. Before the first time that the Archive had fucked Elias after coming into its final form, when Elias first saw the increased size of it, Elias had wondered if The End had not truly found him after all. It hadn’t, though. It was like Elias had been made to be stretched and stuffed on the Archive’s cock, its eyes fluttering open and closed inside him.

 _I was made for this,_ Elias thinks to himself wildly. _This, this, I’m only this—_

 _Good,_ Elias hears the Archive think, and being _praised_ by a _god_ makes him whimper and clench around it. _So good, mine, you take it so good, mine hot wet **useful**_

Elias cups its pointed face in his hands. Its primary eyes stare into Elias’s, and Elias is hypnotized by their stygian hues. He strokes the iridescent fur of its cheeks, dusted the color of galaxies (how can it be that there is still something beautiful in this world?), and his whole body trembles beneath it.

The Archive drops its head from Elias’s hands to nuzzle the side of his face. If it were human this would mean breaking eye contact, but the Archive simply springs a line of eyes that cross down one side of its neck. Elias is transfixed, and he kisses every eyelid he can reach. Elias hooks his elbows under the Archive’s first set of arms and clutches for its back, gripping fistfuls of fur between its forewings and hindwings.

Elias’s head falls back, too fuck-drunk to be bothered when it thumps the floor a bit too hard. His eyes roll back. A few more of them blink in and out of existence across his collarbone. He can feel how slippery he is, his ass slick against the floor from the Archive wrenching orgasm after orgasm out of him. Elias’s cunt feels battered and sore, his cock mercilessly ground up against the Archive’s abdomen, and he never wants this to end.

Was this a blessing from the Spider, too? He knows he would have never chosen this body. Was it chosen for him?

“Thank you,” Elias whines nonsensically into the Archive’s shoulder. He is whining like a dog, he realizes. Fitting, considering that this heat has him completely out of his damned mind, and he has more or less been that way since the Archive arrived. “Thank you …”

The Archive pushes itself up onto its hands to stare with something like fondness down at its most treasured thing in this world. _Stay,_ it commands Elias, petting his face. _Stay._

 _Be Seen,_ it tells him. _Be bred. Be mine. Stay_

That was something that surprised Elias at first. He had assumed that he would have no choice in the matter. But the Archive had never kept him against his will, and he knew he could go out and create another domain if he wanted.

If he didn’t want this. If he didn’t want the Archive filling and pouring out of every hole on his body as many times as it could before Elias passed out, and sometimes after.

Elias moans, feeling the Archive’s cock start to knot and twitch inside him. There are tears pricking his eyes as even now the Archive won’t stop thrusting, catching on the rim of his gaping hole and stretching the folds around it. Elias wonders if he’ll tear. He knows he would welcome it.

“Don’t let me leave,” Elias begs hysterically, as he feels the first swell of the Archive’s orgasm flood him with heat. “Don’t ever let me leave.”

How long does the Archive keep him on its knot? An hour? There was no way to tell time anymore. But Elias knew that the breeding would take.

It always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	8. well-bred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stupidly self-indulgent followup to chapter 7's A/B/O, because I seriously needed happy Elias fluff after what I did to the poor bastard in the last multichapter fic I posted.
> 
> **Rated Explicit**
> 
> _Since I want to write more of these and not everyone likes this kind of smut, I will be posting them separately in the (un-creatively named lol)[Monsterfucker Elias Series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975546) from now on. Enjoy!_

The Archive hooks a single alabaster claw up under Elias’s collar (and Elias thinks the bell is overkill, by the way) and walks him all the way back to the nest it made for him. Elias offers no resistance as the Archive arranges him on the pillowed strands of pale silk, but he pouts prettily.

“Yes, yes, fine,” Elias grumbles. He peers up impishly, meeting the Archive’s primary eyes, and the Archive half-drops every one of its eyelids in unison, looking hilariously exasperated for an enormous oil spill-furred winged beast. It turns to go back to its perch, where it likes to gaze upon the ruined world for endless stretches of time. Before it can even leave the nest, Elias, on his knees, wraps his arms around a calf which would very nearly reach the top of one of Elias’s thighs if he were standing. He buries his face in the Archive’s fur with an unabashed whine.

Elias is very pregnant, and very happily hormonal, and he is driving the Archive bonkers.

Elias thinks that this should probably bother him, the way he more or less exists in a constant state of pheromone-fueled “head empty” these days.

This does not bother him.

It’s pretty great, actually.

The Archive drops to the ground beside Elias, and Elias’s body is infused with the physical warmth of the Archive “laughing” internally, fondly. Elias beams. Encouraging Elias to lie back with one hand on his chest, the Archive moves down Elias’s body until it can rest its massive head on his stomach. Its head is roughly the same size as Elias’s swollen belly. Elias’s lower half twitches, desperate for the Archive to lie between his legs.

This is the closest the Archive ever comes to closing its eyes. They are slitted lazily, but Elias knows that the Archive is just as alert and protective as ever—probably even more so. The Archive presses its forehead to Elias’s bump, then rubs its face back and forth around it. It reminds Elias of a cat, and he wonders if the Archive is somehow marking him this way, as a cat would. The Archive purrs low and rumbling, and Elias whimpers beneath the vibration.

The Archive looks at Elias, and now it’s Elias’s turn to want to laugh, because there is so much character in its face and so much of Jon that Elias can perfectly visualize how it would be arching a human eyebrow in an indulgent expression. Of course it knows what Elias is after, because Elias won’t stop begging for it, and the scent drips off him, and the only reason he’s not getting the wind brutally fucked out of him right now is because the Archive is impossibly gentle with him like this.

It slides up behind Elias and settles him over its lap, spooning him. It is already hard, and Elias practically pants like one of Pavlov’s dogs the instant the Archive’s cock nudges at the lips of his sopping wet pussy. Elias only gets away with wiggling down for a split-second before the Archive grabs his hips and holds him in place firmly. It bends to nuzzle the top of Elias’s head as it gives one hard thrust, and Elias cries out. Elias moans dramatically when it stills. This is an offered compromise: the Archive must remain tender with its pet when it is bursting with its young, but it will allow him to warm its cock.

This is unacceptable to Elias, but the Archive makes a rather valiant effort for a minute while Elias keeps trying to bounce on it like a brat. At last, however, the Archive tugs him in tight against its body, cupping his chin from behind to stroke his cheek, and it begins to move slowly, sweetly inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	9. belonging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @taiey wanted [Jon's internal reaction](https://bastard-men-prefer-jon.tumblr.com/post/633195845964136448/always-the-elias-am-i-still-human-never-the) to Jurgen Leitner saying, **"You belong to it, too."** They won 500+ words in a giveaway to celebrate my 200th follower :3c
> 
> **Rated General**

“You belong to it, too.”

“I, uh,” Jon stammered. What could one possibly say to that?

Just because he’d known it deep down didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“I—I think I need some air.” Shaking, Jon scrabbled around a desk drawer like an animal trying to claw its way out of a box. Emergency cigarettes. Sometimes you just needed to un-quit.

Jon crumpled with his back against the wall outside the Institute, his shoulders curling away from the brick as he clutched a Silk Cut between bloodless knuckles.

_You belong to it, too._

_You belong to it, too._

What did that even mean? What did that make Jon?

_Owned,_ his mind whispered to him. But no, Jurgen had accused Jon of seeing things too literally. What then? An acolyte?

But Jurgen had said they were not gods, not really.

_Monstrous,_ he thought. _It makes me monstrous._ Jurgen had called them “vast,” incapable of manifesting in known reality. Meaning they were abominations, and since they could achieve no physical form within human understanding, Jon could not _be_ anything to them within human understanding. He could only exist as an aspect. Literally the face of evil.

_You’re already changing,_ he thought at himself. _You’ve known it since Prentiss, at least._ Not that he believed he would ever admit that to anyone out loud. Jon couldn’t fathom what tape recordings might possibly have to do with an eldritch fear power; but he knew that throughout the incident, the idea of not recording it had terrified him almost as much as the event itself.

No, it was a lie that Jon couldn’t come up with a connection. Maybe the tapes didn’t belong to The Eye precisely (again, Jurgen might likely say that such a theory was too literal), but the tapes existed with a clear purpose: to document and demonstrate. Not a visual medium, but nonetheless a method to show, to collect knowledge, to archive it …

To feed a source.

Jon had needed to experience and catalogue the horror, because Beholding had needed him to do so. He wasn’t just feeding an independent entity, though, he was feeding something through him, like he was a conduit, or a mouth, just as hungry as the stomach.

He knew this because of the way he had treated Martin after the fact, and the fact that he hadn’t been able to act any other way.

_I_ need _to hear it,_ he’d downright snarled at him. _I_ need _to record it._

Jon had told Martin that the painkillers were wearing off, not that Jon needed any excuse to be snippy. But he really had been angry and lashing out from discomfort—only not entirely from his injuries. He hadn’t understood it then, but he had literally needed to hear it. Every statement he gathered that day had served to alleviate something throbbing and keening inside him, a sense of need burrowing into his marrow like worms.

It tracked now that Jon knew he belonged to it. And the Institute belonged to it, and Jon belonged to the Institute.

Elias’s seat of power.

Oh, god. Jon belonged to him, too, didn’t he?

Was that why Jon had not suspected Elias more? It was only now occurring to Jon that he had suspected Elias least of all, when in all actuality Elias had probably been the most obvious culprit. Perhaps that had been Elias’s influence and intention, rendering himself something slick and sliding away from Jon’s thoughts like water off a duck’s back.

_Or maybe you didn’t_ want _to suspect Elias,_ Jon’s mind hissed.

Jon had always felt things around Elias, a crinkling static on the air, or spreading needles in his limbs like a foot falling asleep. He had always felt seen by Elias, at times lulled by his voice, lifted by his praise. Maybe he and Jon were monsters together, and the monster in Jon recognized Elias’s. And maybe dark things defended only each other.

_I guess I should be relieved,_ Jon thought wryly. _At least it’s not a “crush.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	10. spite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific prompt.
> 
> **Rated General**

Jon still failed to See Elias until the instant he entered the throne room of the Panopticon.

Now he wondered if Elias hadn’t ensured that all along for the sake of the sick punchline getting ham-fistedly hammered out before him now.

“Why?” Jon wheezed. He hadn’t been surprised since Upton House, and he could not recall the last time he had been so with his powers at full capacity. It was a rhetorical question, of course. He could just Know.

Jon staggered back, bumping up against the wall of eyes that bore into his back. He scrunched his face, mouth twisting in disgust. After all he’d Seen, all he’d been through, and everyone he’d lost, how could anything still shock and appall him?

He knew how: because it was the _principle_ of the thing.

“Hello to you, too, Jon,” Jonah said, pristine nails clicking on the armrests of the ostentatious seat. An unnatural smirk played on lips so pillow-full compared to the lips Jon remembered. “Welcome home.”

Jon wanted to snap back that this wasn’t his home, but he knew that to be a lie. He did belong here, especially since Martin had elected to leave his side and succumb to the slow grey swells of The Lonely. Regardless of what body homed Jonah, Jonah would be Jon’s home.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Jon said, despairing and defeated. “It’s not like the Change had a negative impact on … Elias’s body.”

“It did not,” Jonah allowed with a shrug, unfolding the slightest frame and stalking toward Jon softly as a cat. “But you must admit it is a bit poetic, is it not?” Jonah asked with a chuckle. “And what better time for a change than a Change?” Jonah pouted coyly. “Am I not allowed to seek new knowledge and experiences in my own world, Jon?”

“You only did it out of spite,” Jon spat.

“You can be quite petty yourself, you know,” Jonah said, tone quiet but fond. Jonah reached out reverently to stroke delicate fingers along the side of Jon’s jawline.

Jon tilted his head, wishing he could find it in himself to despise how easily he allowed Jonah to cup his cheek. It felt right, even like this, Jon forever drawn to Jonah like a moth to the flame.

“Besides,” Jonah teased, grin sharpening to reveal tiny, perfect white teeth, “I appreciated that half the job had already been done for me.”

“Elias,” Jon murmured huskily. He wasn’t sure how to finish that statement.

“Ah-ah,” Jonah tutted playfully. “If you are not going to call me Jonah, then you know I prefer to take on the name of just my current costume.

“And there is a rather nice ring to Melanie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


End file.
